Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  “Not at all!” scoffed Slashpurse.

  "A Mister Gerald Hannam walked past your home the other day and spotted his gold watch in the self-same window. The very gold watch he had been relieved of just days before!"

  “Do you have proof of this?” rumbled the judge.

  “I do. Mister Hannam immediately called a constable who saw the contents of the window and confiscated the watch, which is now in my pocket.”

  “How do you know it’s Hannam’s?” asked the judge.

  “It has his initials engraved on the back, your honour. G. C. H. George Christopher Hannam.”

  The judge crimped his lips and made an impatient gesture to bring him the watch, but when the prosecutor dipped his fingers into his breast pocket, his hand came away empty. He looked confused, then glared furiously at Slashpurse. “You did this,” he rasped.

  Susan returned his fiery stare and held up her handcuffed wrists, shrugging. In that moment of silence, they could hear the crowd gathered outside; a band of lute-players, prostitutes, and expert pickpockets chanting for Suzie’s release.

  8

  Little Sparrow

  This story was originally written as a play and optioned by the national broadcaster, the SABC.

  The car is almost silent as it moves along the smooth, empty road.

  “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” asks Margaret from the back seat.

  Judy laughs.

  “Mom,” says Andrew, taking his eyes off the road for just long enough to frown at his mother in the rearview mirror. “Please act your age.”

  “Act my age?” demanded the old woman. “Are you insane?”

  “If I am,” said Andrew, “then I know who I got it from.”

  “You will be very pleased to know, my dear," said Margaret, "that dementia is NOT, in fact, contagious."

  “Thank God for that.”

  “And even if it was, you know that I have the fit young brain of a 21-year-old. It’s all the Sudoku I do. Are there any more jelly beans?”

  “Talking of insanity, Margaret,” says Judy, passing the bag of sweets to her mother-in-law. “I still think you are crazy for wanting to live in this place with a bunch of strangers instead of coming to live with us.”

  “Darling,” says Margaret. “When you get to my age, the LAST thing you want is to be coddled by your children. I have no desire whatsoever to play at the role-reversal that comes with moving in with the fruit of my loins. Besides, I crave company.”

  Judy turns to look at her. “You don’t like our company?”

  "Of course I do! But you have such busy lives. I want someone to play cards with. Someone to go for walks with. Easy company: that's what I need."

  “You can change your mind any time, Ma,” says Andrew. “You’ll always be welcome.”

  “There is no way I’ll change my mind. Do you know how much I’ve paid for this place? The deposit was the same amount I spent on my first apartment. And it was non-refundable!”

  "But if you do," Andrew says. "There is a room waiting for you at our house. You know that."

  “I know you don’t want to be a burden,” says Judy, “but you won’t be!”

  “Your father and I made a promise, Andrew—when you were knee-high to a grasshopper—that we would never become ‘those’ kind of old people.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Judy. “Who are THOSE kind of old people?”

  “Ah, dear heart. You know the ones. Creaking and cracking and moaning and groaning. ‘My knees!’ they always say, when they get up from a chair, and it sounds like a dog crunching a chicken bone. ‘Ooh! Ooh! My knees!’ Crunch, crunch, crunch.”

  Judy laughs.

  “And the stories they tell! Oh my God, the stories. You would think that ancient people would have some interesting stories but do they ever tell the good ones?”

  “Never!” says Andrew.

  "Ha! See? Never! Instead, they bore you to tears with their medical issues. They regale you with every minute detail of their latest surgery. Every stitch. Every physio appointment. And they never call them surgeries, they call them ‘ops’. ‘You know, I’m going in for an op,’ they say. ‘Ah, I’ve just had a little op.’ Gah!”

  Judy can’t help chuckling.

  “Stop laughing,” says Andrew. “You’re encouraging her!”

  “… And intimate details about their bowels. Things you can never un-hear! You know, I always want to say, if I wanted to know intimate details about your assho—”

  “Language, Mom!”

  “If I wanted to know the intimate details about your large intestines I would bloody well ask! Pssh. Anyway. Those are the kinds of mind-numbing old folk that move in with their children and never move out. You can’t honestly tell me that THAT is what you want.”

  “But you’re not like that, Margaret. Not at all. We’d love to have you stay. We love your stories—”

  Andrew nods. “You DO have some very entertaining stories.”

  “And you have the knees of a spring chicken!” says Judy.

  “Ha!”

  There is a pause in the conversation, then Andrew speaks. “A little sparrow.”

  “Sorry, love?”

  "Little Sparrow," says Andrew. "That's what Dad used to call Mom. They were in Paris on their honeymoon, and they fell in love with Edith Piaf."

  “Ah,” says Judy, smiling. “Then the knees of a little sparrow!”

  There is another thoughtful pause.

  “Maybe,” says Margaret, “when you see this place you’ll understand. It’s like Club Med! There’s a heated pool and a rec centre and a cocktail bar and everything. They have 24-hour room service!”

  Andrew guffaws. “A cocktail bar? At a nursing home? What’s next? Happy Hour?”

  "It's not a ‘nursing home,' Andrew, dear. It's a ‘Retirement Destination.'"

  “A what?”

  “It’s all about marketing, you see? Kids don’t feel half as bad sending their decrepit parents off to a ‘holiday club’.”

  “Still. A cocktail bar?”

  “Judy, do you see now why I can’t live with you two? I’m 86 bloody years old—”

  “Language!” scolds Andrew.

  "As I was saying, I'm 86 BLOODY years old, and if I want to spend the days swearing and drinking Pimm's and playing bloody strip poker, then I will do it WITHOUT the disapproving glare from the very boy whose bare bottom I used to smack for stealing my menthol cigarettes."

  "That does sound quite lovely, Marge. If Andrew gets too strict with me, I shall come and spend a few days with you. We can drink cocktails together. Although I’m not sure about the strip poker …”

  Margaret pats Judy on the shoulder. “We all have our boundaries, dear.”

  “Some fewer than others,” Andrew murmurs.

  A woman in a red suit and matching lipstick rushes to greet them. "Welcome! Welcome! The Meads, I presume? I'm the club coordinator at ‘The Rambling Rose'. I'm Bernadette, but everyone calls me ‘Bee'."

  “We know,” says Margaret.

  “You know? How clever!” She raises her voice when she speaks directly to Marge. “Been doing our homework, have we?”

  “No, it’s emblazoned on that huge badge on your blouse.”

  “Ha! Of course! I’ve been wearing it for so long now that I don’t even see it anymore! Almost 30 years now!”

  “You must have started when you were 12,” says Andrew.

  “Ah, Mr. Mead, you are too kind. Too kind. But I’m afraid I’m a lot older than you give me credit for.”

  “I’d say a hundred, in the shade,” murmurs Margaret.

  Andrew elbowed his mother in the ribs. “Mom!”

  “Oh, give me a break. I was kidding! I'm on a sugar high from eating too many of those jelly beans, and I'm just excited to be here. If I weren't wearing my adult diaper, I'd be peeing all over this pretty floor."

  Bernadette looks shocked.

  “Please forgive my mother’s inappropriate sense of humour. S
he is neither incontinent, nor does she wear diapers. She's just, well, she's an imp. That's what she is."

  Margaret pretends to be shocked. “Well, I never.”

  “It’s true, Mom, you’re an imp.”

  “You know, you try to raise your kids to respect their elders, and this is what you get."

  “Come on, you two, cut it out,” says Judy, but she does look amused.

  "Twelve long hours in labour, eighteen long years of childhood. Then what? First, they insult you. Then they ship you off to some nursing home to wither and die.”

  Bernadette smiles brightly. “We prefer the term ‘Retirement Destination’.”

  Margaret guffaws. “I bet you do!”

  “Okay, that’s enough for now,” says Judy. “You’ve made a sterling first impression. I’m sure Bee would like to show us around.”

  Bernadette rings a small service bell, and a porter appears. “Ah, there you are. John, please fetch Mrs. Mead’s things from the car. She’ll be staying in room 32.”

  “Bet you the previous tenant just pegged,” whispers Margaret to Judy. “Hope they changed the sheets.”

  After the tour of the premises, they sit on the restaurant patio. Elton John is on the sound system and is updated only by the clinking of ice in their highball glasses.

  “So, what do you think, Marge? Now that you’ve seen the place properly and unpacked your things?”

  “They pour their gins a bit shy,” says Margaret, looking into her empty glass. “But apart from that, I think it’s good.”

  “Just ‘good’?” says Andrew. “This place is a veritable 5-star resort. We’re going to start bringing the kids here for holidays.”

  “It’s good. Of course it’s good. You know what your father always used to say about me: I have great taste.”

  “Did you see the spread for dinner?” asks Andrew. “Incredible.”

  “I told you it was like Club Med. Now do you see why I’d rather be here than eating Judy’s chicken casserole every Thursday night?”

  Judy looks offended. “I thought you liked chicken casserole! I make it especially for you!”

  “Ah, dear. I do love you. But the chicken is already dead when you buy it, you know. There is no cause to murder it further in your kitchen.”

  “I know what you’re doing, Mom,” says Andrew.

  “You do? Good! That makes one of us.”

  "You're trying to make us cross with you so that we feel better about leaving you here. Like when you shout at a dog and throw a stone to get it to run away from you because you know it’s for its own good.”

  ”I am doing no such thing,” insists Marge. “This is just my regular—sparkling!—personality!”

  Andrew and Judy finish their drinks and set the dripping glasses on the table. Judy looks at Margaret in a tender way. “You’ll be okay here, on your own?”

  “I’m hardly on my own, dear. There are hundreds of people here. I’ll certainly have the company that I wanted.”

  Andrew looks around. “I wouldn’t say ‘hundreds’.”

  “Really? I’d say it’s rather quite crowded.”

  "Okay," says Judy, standing up. "I'd love to stay for another, but we'd better get a move on if we have any hope of getting home in the light. We'll come to visit you really soon."

  They hug, and Judy tosses Margaret another packet of sweets.

  "Waiter?" says Marge. "Waiter? I'll have another gin and tonic, please. And this time, make it a double."

  A few days later, Margaret is in her room, drinking sherry and watching a game of cricket. South Africa is bowling, and they get a wicket.

  “Bowled! Yes! Howzat! He’s out! Great ball.”

  Without warning, the channel changes to a nature programme.

  “What the blazes?” says Margaret. “Where is that remote?”

  She changes it back to cricket, but within five minutes it hops back to the wildlife show.

  “Damn it. What is going on?” She changes it back to the sports channel and waits for a few minutes, remote in hand, for the television to glitch again. It stays on the cricket, so she lays the remote down and picks up her sherry.

  “That’s better. Come on, Proteas. You can do it! Just a few more balls to go.”

  The next time it changes, Margaret slams down her drink and stands up. She picks up the phone.

  “Hello? John? It’s Marge. Marge. Yes, Mrs. Mead. In room 32. There’s something wrong with my television. It keeps changing channels, and I'm missing the match."

  “Is it an emergency?” asks John.

  "Yes, it is! We're in the final few overs, and they still have three more batsmen to come in!"

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Hurry! They’re hitting sixes all over the show!”

  The next time it changes over to the nature documentary, the door opens.

  “Is that you, John?” asks Margaret. “Thank goodness! That was quick. I was just … hello? Who’s there?” Margaret keeps quiet for a moment, then, startled, drops the remote. “Oh no, not you again! Get out! Do you hear me? Get out!”

  "Boys, take that ball outside. I'm not asking again!" yells Judy. Her hair is sticking up in all directions, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat of the oven. One of the boys runs up and grabs a handful of grated cheese. Judy smacks his hand.

  “Ow!”

  “I warned you! Now, outside, both of you.”

  The boys tumble into the front garden just as their father arrives home from work. The children yell their greetings, and Andrew comes in, chuckling. "Hello, beautiful."

  “Beautiful?” asks Judy, pushing a damp strand of hair out of her eyes. “Really?”

  “You’re always beautiful when you cook.”

  “So that’s not very often, then.”

  They kiss, and Andrew’s eyebrows shoot up. “Smells good.”

  Judy snaps the tea towel at him. “Don’t act so surprised!”

  Andrew opens a bottle of wine and pours them each a glass. “So, I spoke to Mom’s doctor today.”

  “Since when does Marge have a doctor?” asks Judy.

  “Since Busy Bee decided she needed one, apparently. Mom, of course, disagrees.”

  “Of course she does! That woman's never been sick a day in her life. That's what? A hundred and twenty years?"

  “Close. She’s 86. That’s what she says, anyway.”

  “86! She is a marvel. She really is.”

  “I’m sure that she’s going to reach 100 despite her hedonistic ways. Anyway, it’s not that kind of doctor.”

  "No?" says Judy. "What kind of doctor then? Don't tell me she's going to have her face done. That place really IS like a luxury getaway. I wouldn't be surprised if they offered nips and tucks along with their five-course dinners.”

  Andrew doesn’t laugh, so Judy stops stirring the sauce and looks at him.

  “A … psychologist,” he says.

  Judy switches off the stove and picks up her glass of wine, holding it against her chest. “A psychologist? I’m listening.”

  “It’s nothing serious,” he says.

  “It doesn’t sound like it’s nothing serious.”

  “He—Dr Mhlekwa, lovely chap—wanted her history. There’s nothing in her file.”

  “There’s nothing in her file because she’s as healthy as a horse,” says Judy.

  “She’s been acting … strangely.”

  “She has always acted strangely. They’re probably just not used to having such energetic octogenarians around. What happened? Did they catch her tanning in the nip? Or skinny-dipping?”

  “She’s been complaining about a woman … in her room.”

  “But she has a private room.”

  “They are all private rooms. But apparently, she keeps finding this woman going through her things."

  “So, where does the psychologist come in?”

  "Well, she tried to get the lady to leave. There was a scuffle. A nurse came in and found Mom sitting on th
e floor, surrounded by all her clothes and make-up. Disorientated. Pearls all over the floor.”

  “Pearls?”

  "Her pearl necklace had been broken. The one my Dad gave her in Paris. She was distraught."

  “I’d also be upset! Poor thing! Where was the awful woman?”

  “She had fled the scene. Why are you smiling?”

  Judy tries to hide her sudden urge to laugh by dishing up dinner.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "It's just the picture in my head of an ancient woman fleeing … one painful step at a time with her walker. Clutching one of Marge’s designer scarves and a bag of sweets.”

  Andrew pretends to be cross. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jude.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes.

  "No one can flee with a walker. She must have had one of those scooters."

  They look at each other and swallow their laughter.

  Over dinner, Andrew puts down his cutlery. “I know it’s far,” he says, “but I want to go and see her. Just to make sure she’s okay.”

  "Of course! I'll come along. Let's make a weekend of it. The boys can go to the Jacksons. We can find a little B&B nearby and spend some proper time with her. Not have to rush back.”

  “By ‘some proper time’ I presume you mean Happy Hour?”

  “You know me so well.”

  When Andrew and Judy arrive at The Rambling Rose retirement destination, they find Margaret sitting on her own at the pool.

  "Hi, kids!" she yells. She waves enthusiastically, as if she's in a crowd of people and needs to get their attention. Her bracelets click and jangle.

  “Oh my,” says Judy, under her breath. “Is that a gold bikini she’s wearing?”

  “I think it’s leopard print.”

  “Leopard print with … gold sequins.”

  "Hi, Mom!" says Andrew. "Nice tan."

  “Ha! Thanks. It’s tan-in-a-can,” she says, grinning at them. “They have a great salon here.”

  “And you’ve had your hair done,” says Judy. “It looks lovely.”

  “I do feel good. But that might be the gin speaking.”

  "Mom, it's barely past 10 AM!"